


Horse

by ceywoozle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Plugs, M/M, PWP, horse back riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 16:09:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3331295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>part of the one word bottomjohn prompt series.</p><p>Sherlock surprises John with a day out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Horse

John doesn’t know how he let himself get talked into this. He should have known when Sherlock had started getting mysterious that nothing good could come of it. But this morning, when he had been woken by the soft huff of breath against his ear and the slow incursion of an already slick finger in that hot, familiar place, he hadn’t imagined that this would be it.

Perhaps he should have known. It wasn’t every day that Sherlock used the black plug. It took _ages_ to work that thing inside him, first fingers, then a graduation of various toys, each one bigger than the last. And finally at the end, Sherlock himself, a hard cock thrust up into John and a broad hand on John’s own straining penis.

John had come first. Sherlock had made sure of that, milking every last shudder from John’s wracked and desperate frame before letting his own orgasm come, spilling into John with a cry of smug completion.

And _then_ the black plug, trapping the heat of Sherlock’s sudden absence deep inside John’s red rimmed arse.

And then Sherlock rolling off the bed and tossing John his clothes and saying “Get dressed. We’re going out.”

John _should_ have known. Trouble had been brewing for days.

Below him, the horse lurches over a sudden dip in the ground and John doesn’t even try to stop the snarl that grinds out from between his clenched teeth as the sudden shift sends the plug thrusting into him. Beside him, swaying casually on his own horse, Sherlock glances over and grins.

John wants to punch him.

"I brought a picnic," Sherlock says.

John says nothing. He couldn’t have spoken if he wanted to. Every step of the sway-backed nag beneath him sent the plug pushing into him. Every slow pace of the broken down beast has john feeling more and more fucked, the plug dragging up and down, up and down, in and out, just long enough and large enough that with every few steps he feels it dragging against that one spot that leaves him hard pressed to stay silent, never mind breathe.

He has already come once since this venture has begun. Just at the end of the ride here before he’d even gotten out of the cab. Aware of Sherlock’s eyes on him, and far too aware of the driver in front, it had been like torture trying to stay silent, to keep them from being kicked out onto the side of the road before even arriving at their destination. It had been torture but he’d done it, folding forward on his seat and hissing unevenly through his teeth while Sherlock reassured the driver with talk of sudden headaches.

He can still feel it, the wetness, now cold, sticky and clammy in his pants and trousers, rubbing against his once-more rising penis. He swears he feels a blister forming, and refuses to look at Sherlock, who is still smirking in that insufferable way as his own horse steps smoothly over a rut in the ground. John lets go of the reins long enough to unzip his trousers and pull his cock out of his pants.

It looks obscene, and if anything it makes him feel filthier, more wanton, riding sedately through the country being fucked by a plug with his cock straining and erect, some obscene guide post jutting out before him and pointing the way. He can feel himself getting harder, just staring down at it, and he wants to take it in hand and pull himself off as the plug fucks him from behind, deeper and more sensitive with every step the horse takes.

He nearly jumps at the sudden weight of the hand on his arm and he looks up, barely capable of registering the look of concern on Sherlock’s face.

"I brought a picnic," Sherlock says again, and this time John understands the layers beneath those words. _W_ _e can stop._

And John finds himself grinning fiercely at the mildness of that beloved face. “I’m not hungry yet,” he hears himself say. “Just a bit further.”

Underneath him, the horse stumbles on a stone.

Beside him, Sherlock starts to whistle.


End file.
